


The Mistake

by Egon



Series: The Lies That Destroy Us [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fontcest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monster Biology, Poetic, Resentment, Sibling Incest, Smut, Smut and Angst, Soul Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unplanned Pregnancy, monster pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 18:56:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egon/pseuds/Egon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>#1: There are no repercussions.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mistake

This is the way the world breaks. This is how it shatters.

Everything was fine the way it was.

This is not fine.

The world is lit in shades of blue. The light outside the window from the street lamps is pale and filters through the falling snow. Outside, deepest navy to powder blue. Inside, cobalt and azure where colour ranged so vividly. This darkness, this night, has painted all with the same loose brushstrokes. It feels dreamlike. The brightest blue comes from his brother. He tries to focus on what it could be classed as, in this setting, with so many comparisons. Cyan or electric blue?

Sans’s breath is hot with something that he is having difficulty identifying. The familiar ketchup base has been muddled with a rich and pungent spice. There is the sharp scent of alcohol. It ends on a sweet note, and this he can identify as brown sugar. Sugar, which can dull spicy foods or liquors, sugar, which can bring union between two separate tastes. There is something…. poetic and meaningful he is trying to grasp from that, from putting all his focus on one thing. The bigger thing is too difficult to think about, even as it is happening.

Well, first, yes. Sans is probably drunk. His appearance was disheveled as he entered. He did not respond in typical fashion. His smile was… strange. And the way he had approached him… So. Yes, very likely drunk. If the sharpness of the notes count for much, then it is also very likely that Sans came directly home to him.

Sans’s shoes are still dripping gritty slush onto the seat cushions. There is a small puddle on the floor next to the couch, where one leg hangs off lazily. He expects there are matching drips and puddles all the way from the entryway to the couch. It was storming outside. It is even worse now. What can he say about that?

Nothing. There is no poetry in this. Sans is on top of him, and he can’t move, and he doesn’t know what to do about any of this. In truth, he is pinned only by shock and body weight. His brother is not in control of anything right now, much less his magic. He knew his brother was uneasy around him, but there were no signs— there was nothing to indicate any of this. Ever. And he was keenly aware of so much. The only thing he can take from it is that this was not planned or simmering. This was something Sans was unaware of. This was spur-of-the-moment, pure impulse, pure id, nothing holding him back. This is the Sans he doesn’t know himself to be. No, this is not the real Sans. This is… This is the part of Sans not constrained by Patience and Integrity, so it cannot b—

A tear streaks down the side of his face. He is furiously, consciously aware of everything, suddenly. He can make no more barricades. Sans’s mouth has not been busy with his for a while. He can see everything. Small hands grasping at his ribs, each able to only take one in hand. His shirt has been rucked up, but not damaged, which is a small mercy. It had been clear, at the time, that Sans had wanted to. He wanted it out of the way as quickly as possible.

His cartoon is playing in the background, bright characters in outlandish situations with cheery, hilarious voices. The sound of them seems to be coming from underwater. He’s not hearing very well. He can only focus on those rasps for breath, the kinds of noises Sans makes that sound like laughter. The sound of bone against bone, which is melodic and soft and low, like the scratch of dishes against each other as he puts them away, like fragile glass. His crossword book drops to the floor, following the pen. Maybe it will be forgotten.

He can’t see Sans’s eyes. They are either hooded, or he is robbed of even this for an expression of pure abandonment to one gesture. Below, his smile is locked in some kind of rictus. It is strained. There is nothing ‘smiling’ about it. He is a skeleton who cannot help but grin. He knew that Sans was often deeply unhappy, but he could not mentally bridge that to this moment. Here, that unhappiness, that wretchedness is palpable, here, now, it extends to him, blanketing him in those feelings, crushing in his chest. Sans’s unhappiness is his own, and he wishes that he could find a way to stop it, and he wishes that Sans had never been so unhappy as to sink to this, and he wishes that an older brother had not become so dependent on a younger brother when here, now, it is clear that he could not help him, could not even fight for his own feelings, could not even move to shove him away.

Sans is talking to him, but he does not recognize the words. He feels so sluggish. He reads the movements, and they say ‘I am so sorry. I’m so tired. Nothing matters. None of this matters.’ And those words follow with tears, blue and luminous, that trail along his sternum and slip down to strike his tender heart.

He loves Sans. This is an immutable truth. Nothing Sans does will ever break the bond of love they share. Not even this mis-step. He hesitates, conflicted, wanting to help, uncertain how. If this is what Sans needs, in the moment, even his own autonomy comes secondary to his brother’s happiness, which seems so rare and fleeting these days. The major question is whether this is Sans’s dominant state, if this is something he would want lucidly, or remember. And with that comes the question of consent, if he should be more focused on the very significant issue that his brother would drunkenly force upon him whether or not he desired, or if he should instead consider himself the scoundrel for making good on these invitations, these provocations — these hands pawing over him and tugging all his armor away — when his brother himself is in no present state of mind, no capacity to consent to anything himself.

But there is no resistance in his body. There is no resistance to anything. He shatters on the impact, a silky caress as gravity takes hold and destroys this precious thing. He is sharp, instead, and hungry, and raw, and open, and Sans has knocked this all free. He is disturbed that this was even hidden inside, every pretty glass thing hiding a thousand splinters of weapon inside, primed to destroy tenfold for their destruction. And this is not poetic. It is real.

His hand feels heavy. He reaches up and rests it on Sans’s back, rubbing each ridge of vertebrae as it makes its descent and returns for another pass. Relief blossoms in the expression above him, relief and the same raw hunger. His brother slips and grinds his chest down into him, but there is nothing yet to spark that into pleasure. He shifts Sans against him and carefully edges those shoes off, unlaced, a little large, two fingers pressed close to the heel to drop them away, so he can pull the smaller flush to his body.

And the larger part of this, the part his conscience depends on, does nothing at all. A body in a state of inertia, acted upon by external forces. And pressure applied in specific vectored directions to induce motion in turn. He could say he was doing nothing at all, but he was allowing this. He was drawing him back for kisses, just as awkward and earnest and unlearned as they were when Sans was more forceful. He was running his fingertips along thin ribs, wondering how his brother got so small, so frail along the way.

The wind against the side of the house sounded like waves crashing the shoreline at high tide. They did not live far from the river, and he knew how gentle and forceful the waters could be in turn. The waters were inky black, and bright blue, and clear and white cupped in his hands, trickling out of his fingers. They way they looked and acted changed depending on how much of it is there, the way the waters move. Love, too, is the same. He is the one with complete clarity. Not Sans. It is increasingly clear that this does not end gently or platonically. But the sea can only batter what is rigid and unmoving. To move with the flow is to be carried in its embrace, rocked to new currents, lapped against in loving reassurance. He does nothing. It is an act. Surrender is a choice.

“I need this,” his brother admits. It is better than the dead look in those eyes. For this, consequences be damned. He slides out of his shirt and works his fingers up into his ribcage, wincing every time he scrapes himself. He knows about this, but there is a broad divide between knowledge and experience, and his body is not attuned to self-inflicted pleasures. He warms his soul up, a core of bright orange that seeks to counteract so much bitter blue. His brother traces the motion greedily, his whole head following; he is again reminded of how inebriated Sans must be. A little hand jams its way up his ribcage and assaults him clumsily. Without the arm supporting him, his jaw clacks against his sternum. It is all he can do not to laugh, watching this. Better to laugh than to cry. Better still not to think too hard about what they are doing. He wonders if this is what madness feels like. Better to be mad with someone than mad alone.

Sans’s soul has a strange gelatin consistency, a surprising amount of give, a smooth texture, before his fingers can pierce it. He tries to be gentle with him, although it is clear that Sans is far ahead of him in arousal. It drools pleasure into his ungloved hand, pulsates with light. It is almost hypnotic. The noises Sans makes are unlawful. They must be. They make him quiver and ache. “Papyrus,” Sans calls for him, but he is too scared to make any noises, too uncertain of the procedure.

When they grind together again, it resonates through his whole body. His magic has spread and warmed him, attuned to every little action and gesture as a component of mounting bliss. The waves have carried him away. His pacific stance of do-nothing has brought him too far from the shoreline for any safe return. He now contends with the uncomfortable awareness that this is for Sans and because of Sans, faults and grotesquery in all. And Sans is whimpering and rutting against him, soul seeking soul. His smile is genuine. He can give him this. He can make him happy, just by offering himself. A temporary solution, but for this?

This is dangerous, he is reminded, because of other reasons beyond societal impact. He has never had engaged in sexual activity, and for that reason never had need to protect himself. He was not old enough before. Then he was too busy. Then it was clear that he would be solitary. He never bothered. It is clear that Sans has made no such precautions. Their will alone is the singular barrier between sexual outlet and conception, and he has proven how weak-willed he can be against his brother. With each glob of soul-goo that oozes between his ribs and assimilates into powerful pleasure and light and heat, he wonders if Sans would ask that of him, and if he, in one moment of weakness, might give him a way to carry on their species. No. No, living proof of their love.

But Sans slows, his motions weakening and stuttering, the only noises whimpers. He never had the energy for completion, not in his current state, not at this late hour. “No…. please, Sans—“ It is he who is frantic now, he who is unfulfilled, he, who grasps Sans close and moves his body and ruts him against his ribcage, whispering encouragement, trying to provide the momentum for them both, the object now in motion too heavy to be stopped by fatigue or drunkenness or rationality or familial ties. He needs this. They need this. Sans must be reassured of love so he may never doubt it again. He tells him, in words, “I love you, you are mine, you are safe, I am holding you.” He follows with deeds, with promises. His arms— no judgment, only acceptance and pleasure and oneness, their family against the world, no matter what. One thing to live for. One rock to stand on. One immutable truth in a mire of questions and variables.

Sans’s eyes scrunch, his chest ablaze, the heat pouring off him steadily intensifying. They cannot stop. There is no turning back. There is completion and absolution. Future holds no grounds, no threat. It no longer exists in his eyes, only one long and endless moment, the blue world, the throbbing sorrow, that lonely soul grasping him so tightly, illicit love, reassurance, almost sweltering pleasure. His chest sizzles, his head throbs, thought drops away. Consequence disappears. He is free-floating in uncharted waters. There is only sensation. He is being burned alive. He is losing his air. He is too cold and too hot. He can feel tongues of flame licking at his ribcage, reaching out for each other, his own peeking forward, like seeking like in matched pair. They are a couplet. This is a stanza. Soon a refrain. Maybe there is poetry. Maybe in this act, action in unison, motion in tandem, flow synchronized, no longer fighting the waves, hands and mouths fanning the flames that take over their beings. Maybe there is something worth praising, something worth saving. Vaguely, he understands a caution that goes unobserved, a dread that lingers, but it is too late for that.

He clutches tighter, eyes shut, light blooming behind them, light blooming between their bodies in frenetic release. Blue flame devours his body. He is awash in Sans, his emotions, his love, his being. He is pouring everything that he is out, reaching out with fire and life and light. They are intertwined. It is so powerful and pure. He feels rocked by these waves. They are strong, but they do him no harm. He is adrift. Sans is his life-raft. It is warm but he shudders. It is over so soon, but the aftershocks remain. It has burned through his energy. He feels as brittle as a match-stick. Knowledge and experience have been coupled for him, but it is too much to take in. He feels new. He feels something new in his heart, nestled against him. He feels so aware of himself, suddenly. It feels wonderful.

Sans has fallen asleep. Fatigue has made him heavy and limp. It is not easy to switch their positions and shimmy him horizontal, shirt tucked back down. The stains cannot be dealt with now. He hopes, guiltily, that they will go unnoticed, more the product of a wet dream that he might only feature in two-dimensionally. He tucks him in with the throw and puts the crossword and the pencil on the coffee table. 

The cartoons have gone away. It is only the colourful static channel at this hour. The storm has passed. Silence after that din is uncomfortable, and only makes him reflect more upon its aftermath. He feels dizzy. There is no shame. He did not do anything wrong, but— it cannot be anything right, either. Nothing that they could share. Nothing that could be accepted. He is not ignorant. Societally….

His fingers pause at his chest, still so sensitive, with a sudden observation. Once again, the ground feels like it is dropping out from under him. Stupidly— and he knew this was a potential outcome, but it was by no means a certainty, by no means the assumed outcome— a spark has caught between their flames, a dot of light that represents their love, their mutual desire, in that one moment, to produce a child. He should feel some degree of delight that Sans felt that way, inebriated or not. He is a little terrified, in the moment, to feel loved or happy for it. 

An act, made in private, in dark witching hours, to never be spoken of again… an act between two individuals who love each other, two who can keep their love quiet and unspoken and behind locked doors. Even if only once, he could live with that. How hollow it makes his words and assurances. Such a bitter cynicism to say that their ‘forever’ lived and died in one moment. Fine. But to foster a child from it— just once, only one time, and— He had studied the law. He knew the assumed repercussions great and small, depending on the leniency of the Captain. To throw them into that because of one stupid action, one mistake. Too cruel. But to extinguish a life they both wanted, their mutual love and desire conjuring into existence? He advocates for that right at the best of times, but when it comes to his own frame, and his own life weighed against this little spark’s? He cannot even give himself that?

No. No— because a part of him knows that neither of them would be likely to find anyone else, or to do this form of activity again. It is not the spark at an inconvenient time. It is not the spark formed by two people filled with love but no means. It is not even the spark between two people who loathe each other. He is already guilting himself with the concrete knowledge that this is likely the only spark he will ever house, and the certainty that he would not allow himself to partake in the forbidden without also being willing to reap its consequences in full.

So then what, Great Papyrus? A spark he intends to grow and to keep and to pass off as his own child, true and natural, scarlet letter emblazoned on his chest and no hint of the other paternal figure in sight? Raise a child? Kill his ambition for a career, for a stupid, sightless moment of inhibition? And what of Sans, tired, straining at the seams, already a handful of responsibility without an additional bundle of complications? He has not healed him with magical sex. He cannot heal him with the inclusion of a child. Sans, with his reputation as a judge, defender of the law, who let the weight of the world become too heavy, who slipped and made a mortal error? Why? Why them? What did he do, besides wanting this, wanting something to make sure that Sans was never, never alone again, wanting to make sure that their love blossomed between them from brotherly to something more? Too many ways to destroy themselves, too risky, and stubbornly still, he trends toward the path of least resistance. Inaction. Letting fate carry him. Accept responsibility. Accept responsibility in full. Accept responsibility for everything.

Sans can never know. It is the only way that he can reason that their reputations and integrity remain intact. He can work within his means to push this spark along as rapidly as possible, fueling its growth with his magic, so it cannot coincide with this night at all. He can push along the innocence; the stork, almighty bringer of children, with its present for their lonely house. He can prepare for its arrival, especially his role as a single parent, doing all the labour for two. There is no way to ‘have your cake and eat it too’. Being in the Guard is filled with hard choices. To preserve reputation and life of spark, he must be prepared: never let on, never let in, never do that again, keep Sans in the dark more than anyone else. Protect everyone.

Beyond the fatigue, the panic, the uncertainty that surpasses the love and tenderness and desire that the night has brought, he works and formulates the plan. The meal left out on the table for Sans is put back into tupperware. The dish must be washed. The crossword is put away. He turns the TV off. He was never there. He was in his bed all along. He is at the foot of the stairs before he stops and turns back. No. He cannot erase any physical evidence on Sans without risk of waking him. Should have thought of that before tucking him in. One last kiss pressed to Sans’s forehead, the ache already threatening to tear him apart, because now that his heart knows what it wants, he knows he can no longer have it. This is what he is giving up. This is what he must.

He ascends the stairs quietly, agonizing, knowing he will be unable to sleep what little night remains, knowing that the work begins more earnestly when the lies begin, knowing that he shoulders this mistake alone. This is what he must.

This is the way his world breaks. This is the way he shatters.


End file.
